


Open Your Eyes

by ellaria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post ADWD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellaria/pseuds/ellaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories flooded her mind. Memories of a young king who never ruled, memories of two daughters who never made it home, memories of a golden knight whose honor she never restored. Every oath was a dry leaf flying in the wind, a promise unfulfilled. <i>Choose</i>, the dead woman had said, the sound reverberating in the corners of her mind, and her acceptance of death had felt so right then. To die for him. <i>Choose</i>.</p><p>Brienne of Tarth has come to learn that when alliances shift faster than the wind, oaths are a double-edged sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SigilBroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigilBroken/gifts), [MhysaMhysa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MhysaMhysa/gifts).



> Yep, that is a "canon compliant" tag you just saw. This is for SigilBroken and MhysaMhysa. See, gals, this is what happens when I write canon. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here and all that.
> 
> Quotes are from Sylvia Plath’s poem [Mad Girl’s Love Song](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/mad-girls-love-song). If you want a song for this, [DMB – When the World Ends](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qniJOC4lvfk). If you want a whole soundtrack, [Metallica’s S&M](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FD0L1Mkeo3A) was my background music. GRRM owns all these characters.

* * *

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;_   
_I lift my lids and all is born again._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

* * *

“Open your eyes.”

She could not remember closing them, though. It might have been the gentle rocking of the horse as she rode, the monotony of watching tree after tree after tree, the sound of hooves sloshing against the mud, or his silence. His suspicion was as palpable as her lack of aptitude to tell a lie, to betray his trust, to pull apart the strands of her carefully woven personality as her willpower and commitment were tested. He had resorted to swallowing all his concerns while raising the tension between them, the unasked questions threatening to choke them both as they headed to their inevitable doom.

Her oaths had been shuffled together, but the minute the young boy’s life had been on the line, the choice had poured out of her like blood gushing from an open wound. The innocents had to come first, it was the reason knights existed, to protect those who could not protect themselves. When her sense and her heart entered the battlefield she had to turn to chivalry, the compass of her life since she left Tarth, a stupid girl on a stupid quest a thousand moons ago.

Her cheek throbbed and her sword arm was still aching and splintered, so she held the reins in her left hand instead. Every step the horse took sent a wave of pain to her recovering ribs, but it was so constant that it progressively faded the same way a loud noise would after hearing it for too long.

“We should stop to rest. You’re going to fall off the horse,” Jaime told her, picking up the pace to ride beside her. His brow was furrowed and his eyes glinted with distrust, such an exceptional expression in her presence after their travels, as if they had gone right back to the beginning. _A cycle_. She could have laughed. _We’re back where we started, but now I’m the one in manacles, the oathbreaker and the Kingslayer’s Whore_.

“I will be fine,” she replied, rubbing her eyes with her weak right hand. “We cannot settle down to rest yet. We still have a few hours of daylight.”

He gave her an amused sigh, but said nothing else. She wondered what was going through his head, wondered how he would phrase his questions should he finally dare ask her where she was truly leading him. _To the grave_.

* * *

The beast had a filthy smell and its fur was damp; she could see it when its face neared hers, fierce and terrifying. It was as big as she remembered, if not bigger. The bear’s mouth spread wide before her eyes, slobbering over her chest and neck. She wanted to drive it away, to get it off her, she wanted a sword, she wanted a golden-haired knight to jump in and rescue her, but she had always been her own knight.

The breath coming from its mouth whenever it roared was more than Brienne could take, causing her an urge to retch. But her arms were useless, and so were her legs. The animal was positioned right on top of her, pushing her harshly against the damp soil, every growl a torment, every breath a step closer to death. She opened her mouth to call for someone, for him, but then she remembered she had bitten off her tongue long ago, so it was all she could do to wince and struggle uselessly.

The bear stood on its hind legs, ready to deliver the final blow. It fell back on top of her with a thud and crushed her, breaking every one of her bones. Her torso burned and all she could feel then was pain and terror. She shut her eyes tightly, seeking to imagine a different scenario, wishing she were elsewhere, thinking of King’s Landing and Bitterbridge and Tarth, all so that she did not have to see. As if by instinct her lids disobeyed her and she saw, she saw what was beyond—it was not the bear, but Biter, and Biter was hungrier than the beast. Every time his teeth sunk deep into her cheek she became broken; she was disarmed, naked and alone. A cry of despair fled from her lips.

Eyes closed, blinked, closed again. The shadows danced before her eyes, but how could they, if she willed her eyes not to see? A stream of warm liquid ran down her forearms, down her hands, staining every finger and settling deep beneath her nails. Renly’s blood. But she knew it was not his, for her king was dead, she had failed him, she had failed them all. Two hands wrapped tightly around her throat and she was awash with relief, dreaming of rest. All remaining air escaped her lungs, and her eyes flew open to find Jaime straddling her, choking her.

“Oathbreaker,” the knight told her spitefully. “False friend. Oathbreaker.” _Breaker, breaker_ , came the echo, and then she screamed out his name.

Upon waking Brienne grasped her throat with urgency, feeling the sweat on her brow and the throbbing in her cheek. The fire beside her had nearly gone out by then, the flame a mere flicker of light by now. _The night is dark and full of terror_ , were the prayers she had overheard in her fevered state, but it was not the night she feared now, it was her dreams, her nightmares. She wished she never had to close her eyes again.

Relief washed over her upon noticing that he was not with her. The horses were secured to a tree, still and calm, resting from the long ride. She knew he would not flee. In his gaze she could see that he meant to play along, if only out of curiosity. Perhaps her lie had been too transparent; the Hound was presumed dead, after all. Jaime was probably collecting wood for the fire.

Afterward she dreaded falling asleep, afraid that he would hear her call his name.

* * *

The following night she need not be awoken by Jaime, for she heard the sound of the loudest thunder in her life. When she walked out of the narrow hillside cave to check on the horses, she found them tied to a protruding rock, rearing in desperation and fear. By then the rain had grown so wild that the flowing water reached the horses’ knees. The ground was all mud and branches, her boots splashing as she walked out. Jaime was struggling to calm down the animals long enough to untie them and lead them to higher ground.

She rushed to help him, taking the reins of the horses while he rubbed their withers and necks to soothe them. When they had them under control, they walked to the top of the hill as slowly as they could, watching out for any sinkholes or branches concealed by the floodwater that might break one of their mounts’ legs.

Once they reached higher ground, the silence between them became uncomfortable. Brienne wondered how long she had been sleeping while he kept guard. “You can rest now. It’s my turn to take the watch.”

He scoffed. “You should take whatever sleep you can get. It’s not like you’re getting any rest.”

She was puzzled at that, so she just stood there awkwardly, awaiting an explanation that she feared she would not be glad to hear.

“You don’t think I’ve heard you screaming at night?” Jaime asked her with a scowl. “I’m no fool, wench. You reek of guilt and shame. There is no worse liar than you. How far are we from wherever we’re truly headed?”

Brienne lacked the courage to look him in the eye after his very accurate accusations. She stared at her boots, instead, drenched almost all the way up to her knees. Another thunder roared and the rain was not letting down; if anything, it was becoming more intense. At last she whispered, “Half a day.” A wolf howled in the distance. “If the rain does not subside, we will be there at sundown.”

“Who asked you to bring me?”

“You would not believe me if I told you,” Brienne replied softly. She still had a hard time believing it herself—that face, her hatred, the color of her putrid skin, the flesh hanging off in tatters.

Frustrated by her response, Jaime took a step closer, reducing the distance between them to the point of unsettling her. With a rough hand he grasped her chin and turned it sideways. His calloused, cold fingers reached out to lift the bandage with care. She shut her eyes, remembering what the priest had told her. _That creature chewed off half your cheek_. She had not even looked at it yet, but what more could it matter? There was nothing that could make her uglier in Jaime’s eyes. It was not like she was planning on being alive for long.

Brienne barely lifted her gaze to look at his reaction. His brow furrowed and he was clenching his teeth. Soon enough he covered the wounded flesh and looked straight into her eyes questioningly. “Who did this to you?”

There was no lying at that point, so she decided to be as honest as she could. “Biter,” she whispered. His expression remained still, his breath strained, as if he were enraged and was trying not to show it. “He’s dead now. They’re all dead.”

It was then that he let go of her, pacing and clearing the strands of hair that were sticking to his face from the rain. They were both soaked head to toe, and if the wind rose, they would be chilled in mere moments. Without a moon in the sky and unable to light torches, it was all they could do to remain where they were until the sunrise.

While Jaime mulled over the new information, she walked over to a group of trees, finding one that was sturdy enough to hold the horses safely. She stayed with the animals until they settled down. Jaime’s blood bay, Honor, whinnied for a long time before relaxing.

Brienne slumped down on the clammy grass, resting her back against an oak. As she adjusted her cloak to cover her completely, she noticed the laces were loose. _So he has seen the marks on my neck, as well_ , she thought with despair. One of the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms was soon going to be slain like a dog, all because of a freak of a woman who could barely hold her own weight from her recent wounds.

* * *

It was chaos all around.

That was the place, she recalled everything about it. It was easy to remember the details of a landscape that was meant to be the last thing you saw before being hanged by a group of outlaws for your ridiculous honor. There was the tree, the crooked willow they had picked for her. Her rope, now empty, was still hanging on one of the branches, waiting for the next poor fool. She turned to watch the other trees, Pod and Hyle’s elms, but the ropes had been cut. That, at least, was a relief. It was better than finding their corpses swinging in the wind, like she had feared.

But that was as far as relief went.

There were at least half a hundred dead wolves lying on the ground, already being picked apart by crows. The rain had ceased at last, leaving behind a foul stench of wet death, filling her with a sensation of uncertainty that clawed at her expectations, both encouraging and dreadful in equal measure. Some of the wolves had two or more arrows in them, others were slain by the sword. More than one had been set on fire. The closest to her mare was being picked apart by a crow that was pulling out its eyes and stopped only to caw at them before taking flight.

It was not only wolves, either. A tall fire was burning farther ahead, and she could see a group of corpses gathered to be thrown in, while others were already becoming ashes. Her heart was beating so quickly she felt it might escape her. _Pod_ , she thought in anguish. _Pod is the reason for all this. He must live._

She dismounted and ignored the urge to unsheathe her sword; her arm was yet too weak. She should save her strength in case she had to respond rapidly to an attack from the Brotherhood. Jaime’s left hand grasped the hilt of his own, confusion written on his features at the sight. She still had not informed him what they were supposed to face, but he understood their need to be alert.

Nothing was more chilling that the silence that surrounded them. It was the silence of death, the silence of a lost battle. The dead leaves crunched beneath her boots as she walked and she noticed a flickering light coming from the entrance of the cave. Had someone survived?

Her question answered itself when she heard a soft whistle and turned in an abrupt motion towards the source. Jaime had already drawn his blade by then, but it was not necessary. It was Hyle and Pod, slumped down with their backs against a huge rock, not far from the pyre. Brienne’s heart warmed upon watching the young boy alive and well. Hyle’s face was still badly bruised, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

“My lady . . . Ser!” the squire exclaimed at the sight, standing awkwardly. “You’re back.”

“I would not leave you here to die, Pod,” she told him, forcing a smile upon her lips.

Hyle remained seated, keeping his sword firmly at his side, as if he were alert for any possible assault. Still his tone was nonchalant. “Seems the gods have given us a second chance to wed, my lady,” he told her with a smirk. She ignored his jests, as usual. “We’ve lived to see another day.”

“What was it that went down here?” she inquired.

“W-wolves,” Pod informed them, pointing at the fallen beasts. “A huge pack of them. They attacked at first light.”

Jaime frowned and she realized she had not introduced them, though he must surely know Podrick from King’s Landing. “Ser Jaime, this is my squire, Podrick Payne. He served your brother and has joined me in my quest to find Sansa. And that’s Ser Hyle Hunt, a knight formerly in the service of Lord Randyll Tarly.”

“You keep strange company, my lady,” Jaime replied. He regarded Pod with a nod, but the look he threw Hyle was not so amicable. Brienne thought he must be concerned that somebody else was accompanying her; it would make it easier for Sansa’s location to be exposed. But she had already grown used to the knight’s presence and if anything went awry, he would never defeat her in combat. At least not once she fully recovered from her wounds.

“How is it that you are both out here, unbound?” she asked, gesturing towards the cave entrance with her head. “Where is the Brotherhood?”

“Scattered, my lady, Ser,” Pod replied, stumbling over his words. “The men. They were startled by the wolves. They were howling all night, but they stopped before the attack. We thought they were gone.”

Hyle continued, “The bastards had us standing with the noose around our necks all night long, awaiting your return. They said if you did not come by sundown, we’d hang, and then they’d go get you.” The dark-haired man pulled out his skin of wine and drank deep. She wondered how he had managed to get his belongings back. “Then the attack came. It was them that fucked each other up. Some of them were not as happy as they seemed.”

“The red priest,” Pod whispered, pointing at the cave. “He said he’d seen something in his fires.”

“It worked in our favor, anyway,” Hunt said, finally standing. “While the others were fighting the wolves he unbound our wrists and cut our ropes. We managed to climb up to the branches during the attack. It was a bloodbath. There were two hundred of the beasts, at the very least, and at the head was the largest she-wolf I’ve ever seen. The bitch was fierce and her fur was dripping with blood.”

“How large?” Jaime asked him.

“At least twice the size of a normal wolf.”

He snorted. “A direwolf. So the stories are true, it would seem. I wonder if it’s the Stark pup’s she-wolf. She was lost near Darry, long ago.”

“Aye. I didn’t want to believe it, but with the dead rising from the ground, I’ll believe anything.” Hyle rubbed his wrists, chafed from the ropes, while Pod remained silent, staring at the ground. Brienne’s eyes focused on the young boy’s neck, where a mark like hers was still raw. “The wolves were attacking _her_ , as well. They took her down and mauled her. I think she’s bleeding out. But then the big she-wolf bared her teeth and they all stayed away.”

“They’re in there? They let you go?” Brienne inquired, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Hunt nodded. “Most of the outlaws ran off on their horses, scurrying like rats, chased by the rest of the pack. Hundreds, I tell you. Others were killed, and the wolves carried them off to eat. That bastard Lemoncloak had his throat ripped out by the big bitch. Thoros took Stoneheart in there, says he won’t kiss her.”

 _She is dying_ , Brienne realized at the words.

Jaime’s face twisted in confusion and Brienne decided it was time to let him know the truth. “Lady Catelyn,” she said softly. “They brought her back. The Kiss of Life, the priest calls it. She was dead three days . . .” Her voice trailed off, understanding how mad she must sound. The best way was to show him, so she nudged his arm and led him inside. Pod and Hyle followed suit.

Lady Stoneheart was sitting behind the same trestle table where Brienne had seen her the first time, with a wounded arm draped across her lap and a big gash on her side. The blood was pooling on the floor, but nobody was doing anything about it. Her hood was down, so her face was plain to see. Though she looked much weaker, her frightening eyes were still glinting with unspoken fury. Thoros sat in front of the fire, absorbed by his visions.

“Lady Brienne,” she heard a girl’s voice call from the corner. It was Jeyne Heddle, looking pale, still shaken by the confrontation. “You brought him?”

Brienne simply nodded in response. Thoros gazed at her with pensive eyes, as if wishing to convey a message he was unable to voice. She recalled his resigned words. _I remember justice. It had a pleasant taste_. He had been lost because his Red God would not show him answers in the fires any longer.

She inspected the cave more closely and saw a few women and children huddled together in the shadows, but no men of fighting age. They had all left the cave to fight the wolves. The northman stood in a corner, with his arms crossed over his chest. Armed. _He’ll stay with her till the end_. But he made no move to stop her and Jaime from approaching Lady Stoneheart.

“Kingslayer,” she croaked once she had used her good hand to cover the slit at her throat. “Your time has come.” Brienne had to struggle to understand her words.

“Looking more beautiful with each passing day, Lady Stark,” Jaime replied with a sneer. “How fares your dear Ned? Did you get to see him before being dragged back to life?”

Her glare was wildfire, melting everything in its path. Her fingers tensed, her teeth clenched. She looked almost a predator in the wild, a feral creature more than the lady she had been in life. Brienne wanted to kick him, to get him to be quiet; this was no time for his jests.

“Brienne,” Stoneheart called to her, her gaze unflinching. “You chose the sword. Is it Oathkeeper, or Oathbreaker?”

Jaime turned to look at her and Brienne saw his green eyes flicker with understanding. _He knows I’ve sworn to kill him_. As if the betrayal of bringing him to the Brotherhood had not been enough. Still his hand went not to his sword, or to his dagger, it went not to defend himself or to attack. His hand went nowhere, staying still—he would not fight her. His expression was a mystery; she could not tell whether he was angry or disappointed. The silence stretched and stretched. The only noise came from the crackling of the fire, while the only movements were the shadows on the branched walls of the cave. When Brienne pulled her Valyrian steel sword out of its scabbard, Jaime stood still.

Memories flooded her mind. Memories of a young king who never ruled, memories of two daughters who never made it home, memories of a golden knight whose honor she never restored. Every oath was a dry leaf flying in the wind, a promise unfulfilled. _Choose_ , the dead woman had said, the sound reverberating in the corners of her mind, and her acceptance of death had felt so right then. To die for him. _Choose_.

And again she chose him.

Oathkeeper plunged into her with ease, becoming stained with dark blood. The life would have gone out of her eyes, if there had been any to begin with. Brienne’s eyes settled on the scars that ran down her previously beautiful face, tears of blood, despair for her children, and Brienne remembered the hatred, felt the sheer chill of it all. Thought of Sansa, of Arya, watching her like this; thought of her own father. If she ever had to witness such a thing, she would rather he died and be left to rest than wander with such an insatiable thirst for vengeance.

Brienne’s vision became blurred, watching her die again, but surely it must be the remnants of the rain dripping from her coarse straw-colored hair.

Oathbreaker.

* * *

Jaime’s words resonated inside her mind, like the echo of a voice inside a big, empty cave, like the cawing of the ravens in a rookery. _Tarth is taken_.

Brienne’s response was staring into her tank of ale, the only decent drink that could be found at their inn in Lord Harroway’s Town. It had been untouched for so long that a fly had managed to dive in and was now floating on the surface. She thought of her father, remembered the day she left to follow Renly to battle. She had felt like a true knight, wishing nothing more than to serve her king.

It was almost farcical how different her path had been to the one she had imagined, sitting in a dirty table amongst deserters and pillagers and serving women who were doing anything but serve. One of them had sat upon Jaime’s lap earlier, but he had shaken her off, telling her he took a vow and meant to keep it. Soon the young woman had found another, more accepting lap. Hyle was hearing news from beyond the Narrow Sea from a group of mercenaries, though they sounded more like tales; tales of dragons hatching, tales of slaves rising, tales of a Targaryen Queen, as if they did not have enough trouble of their own.

 _Dragons. More of them_.

“Brienne, did you hear me?” Jaime asked her, lightly kicking her shin under the table, as if to wake her from a slumber. “I said—”

“I heard what you said,” she interrupted, finally meeting his eyes.

She was so weary she wondered how she even managed to stay awake. The taste of true war was bitter. She recalled the name Lady Catelyn had given them all, the knights of summer. Truly Brienne had known nothing, she had never imagined things getting so distorted. The War of the Five Kings had been a tickle compared to what was coming.

“Your father must be a captive,” Jaime assured her, looking slightly concerned. “They’re like to hold him for ransom or maintain him there to assert their position. I doubt they would do him harm, Brienne.”

Comfort. _I wondered if he would comfort me, one day, and here he is, and I should be the one comforting him_. “Ser, your king . . . Your sister . . . You should not worry about me.”

“No, I shouldn’t.” His face contorted in anger. “I should just jump on my horse, ride full speed towards King’s Landing and leave you here to your fate, should I not? Because it worked so well the last time.” His hand reached out and touched her naked cheek, the bandage now discarded. A scar had begun to settle over the consumed flesh, and though it was tender, it was not as painful as before. Brienne pulled back her head, away from him, from his touch. It made him angrier, and he stood so suddenly the liquid from the tankards sloshed onto the stained table. “You aim to make me worth the rope around your neck, and when I try to protect you, you can’t agree to it. I will not let you go on this mad quest. You’ve heard them, you’ve heard all of them. The passage to the Vale is blocked by snow. Winterfell is taken by Roose Bolton, who fights Stannis for the North. Lady Sansa cannot be there. I took Riverrun myself and she’s not there either. Those are the places you considered. There is nowhere else to look for her now, and there is no trace of the younger Stark girl.”

“But The Vale—”

She had not seen Ser Hyle standing behind her, so she was slightly startled when he interrupted her. “We will go,” he told her confidently. There was nothing mocking in his expression, no trace of his usual smirks. “Pod and I, we’ll head for the Vale. We’ll stay at the last inn of the road until the path is clear. We will search for her, Pod knows what she looks like, he’ll recognize her. My lady, it will be months before there is passage. If there is a place where you are needed, you’d best see to it.”

Brienne was already opening her mouth to protest when Jaime growled, “Take it. It’s as good a deal as you’re ever going to get. If you head to the Riverlands again, you will get yourself well and killed by the remnants of the Brotherhood. I will not have it said that you were hanged in the name of the Kingslayer.”

“Jaime . . .”

“Go,” he told Hyle, deciding the best approach was not to address her at all. “Keep the lad safe. He’s young and eager to jump into a fight. I’d tell you I’ll kill you myself if you intend to sell Sansa, but there’s hardly anyone who’ll hand you that reward at this point.”

Her other companion nodded, letting the threat slide, and she felt the way she had when her father established her betrothals, one failure after another, being told what to do by these men. She would not be cast down like some servant, like some lord’s wife. She was a knight, though as of late she thought she only liked to play at one.

“Who are you to tell me what do, or where to go?” she spat at him, lurching to her feet with a frustration she was not aware was in her. “We both made a promise.”

It was a breaking point for Jaime. He gritted his teeth and pulled her harshly by her good arm, leading her outside toward the stables, which were occupied only by their own horses. There was no other place in the entire inn where they could have a word without somebody listening in. He pushed her against one of the empty stalls. The place smelled of manure, of wet horse, of moldy hay from the humidity of the rainy days.

His left hand pressed her shoulder back, while his golden one grasped her hip, holding her still. Before she had a chance to stir, he spoke, his voice raspy, “You stupid stubborn wench. A _promise_? Do you even realize what we’re living right now? We’re standing right in the middle of a fucking war, Brienne. Each day we wake up alive is borrowed time. I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and _I don’t know where my king is_. I don’t know where my sister is. I don’t know where my brother is. I don’t know if Myrcella is safe. She was at Dorne the last I knew, and the Martells sided with this Targaryen boy. Spare me your self-righteousness, or better yet, enlighten me . . . Where was your oath when you buried Oathkeeper into that _thing_ ’s heart?”

All she could see was red then. Rage, frustration, guilt. She pushed him away with all her strength and meant to storm out, but he grasped her wrist and turned her around. “How can you just _die_ for me, so willingly, and then not understand why I care what happens to you out there?”

His hand closed around the back of her neck. Her eyes widened; she tried to say something, but nothing came out of her gaping mouth. Soon it was not just her open mouth, but his as well, covering it all, stealing the air straight from her lungs, pushing her back harshly against the door. Jaime pulled away and looked at her, and his gaze was so demanding that it shook out her panic, and she swallowed and breathed and kissed him back. Her lips somehow fell into a dance with his. She was so bad at dancing, so graceless, but this was different, as natural as swinging a blade. He slowed down, tasted her; the tip of his tongue caught her off guard by grazing her lower lip. She opened it for him to do as he would, and her body complied—only her body, for she no longer had any wits about her.

It was not learned, it was simply instinct, letting him savor her mouth and in turn savor his own. They broke apart and breathed and fell back into it; she felt the hair at the back of his neck and wondered when her hands had come to grasp him there. Jaime’s cold golden hand was firmly pressed against the small of her back, pulling her closer still. He cleared the strands of hair away from her face to place kisses along the scar on her maimed cheek, along her neck, where the cuts and bruises had almost faded, the only markings of her willingness to give her life for his, for the Kingslayer’s, for Ser Jaime Lannister, who had pushed a boy out of a window, who had broken his oath, who had saved her maidenhood and her life, who had ruthlessly taken her heart out of her chest without consent.

And he tasted like everything she could ever wish for all her days.

“I care,” he whispered almost furiously, his voice muffled against the skin of her throat. “I care what happens to you. Stay with me. Fight with me.”

She knew she must be blushing bright red, the heat on her cheeks told her so. It was Jaime, and he was saying these words. She had dreamed of him, of his voice, of being at his side once more, of griffins becoming lions on a cloak. She tried to find a selfish motive that would cause him to ask her to stay, but to him she would be a fighter in a hundred, five hundred or a thousand. It was not political, either, for she barely had a home any longer. So she found herself at a loss.

She closed her eyes, sought his lips. Tasted the want. Jaime would pull back from her in a night, in a sennight, in a fortnight, in a turn of the moon. He would remember his sister or his vows. And Brienne would continue to love him, blindly, to follow him, madly.

She would stay.

* * *

Five hundred men made the Lannister forces. They had come at Jaime’s behest to throw back whatever part of the Targaryen forces they could, just enough to enter the city, to reach the Red Keep and find King Tommen, find the Queen Regent, find anyone who might be alive. Surprisingly enough Brienne’s mare still lived, the beautiful mare he had given her so long ago, though not without concealing it beneath unkind words. _As homely as you are but somewhat better trained_.

He went all out to inspire his troops. Golden armor, white cloak, his horse dressed in the pure white of the Kingsguard, his beard neatly trimmed, his hair freshly washed and shining in the sun of the dawn. A sun they had not seen so clearly in many snow filled days. Perhaps it was a good omen.

Three days earlier his forces had arrived in spurts in the Crownlands; Addam Marbrand, Strongboar and Jaime’s cousin Ser Daven Lannister were some of the most important men at his service. She had met them all. Daven had been the first to make a lewd jape about her constant presence at his side, though he had not been the last. She oft overheard soldiers in their tents speak of the two of them. Their remarks were not so dissimilar to the Brotherhood’s.

Their encounter at the stables was forgotten, as she knew it would be. Brienne had shared Jaime’s tent, but a pallet had been set in a corner. He had taken it for himself, insisting that she take the bed, and then he had a young woman named Pia see to her needs. Brienne had not many, other than water for a bath and to be helped into her new armor before battle, improvised out of pieces of other men’s.

Jaime’s sole focus became the battle plan and the reports from the scouts they sent ahead, letting them know they faced at least nine hundred men from the Golden Company. It was all that was left of them after meeting the Tyrells in the field. Fortunately their elephants had remained behind.

The Martells were Aegon Targaryen’s most important allies, though they would not be present in the field. Their reserves were cautiously settled in the Stormlands, ensuring they would maintain control over Storm’s End. They also infected the Kingwood with groups of soldiers to take down any forces that their enemies could send by boats to infiltrate their camps.

Brienne was deaf to Jaime’s words of encouragement towards his men. She was too focused on controlling the beating of her heart, the boiling of her blood, the heat of that moment before battle that she was never given a chance to experience for her king. Moments later it was only cheers and shouts, “Lannister!” and “King’s Landing!” and “Casterly Rock!”. It was the sound of the thundering hooves of hundreds of horses, it was the feeling of the wind beating against her face, racing to the battle in the vanguard, next to him, her heart pumping her blood and her raw instincts taking over.

* * *

Brienne stayed at his right side, close to him, to avoid leaving gaps for the enemy to invade. She dodged to a side, barely missing a slash from an arakh, the man before her only a blur of the green in his beard. A parry, a thrust; she used too much strength and Oathkeeper got stuck deeply inside the man’s guts. There was no time to think. She pushed her foot against his chest when he fell to his knees, pulled out the blade and whirled just in time to fall back two steps, narrowly escaping an axe to the head. Her attacker’s eye blew and she saw the tip of Jaime’s sword emerge, his face half-covered by a grin. “I’ve got far more than you one-handed, now, my lady.”

She rushed to meet the knight, dodging the sword of a mercenary and kicking him in the knee, putting him off balance in time for Jaime to slash his throat. Brienne had barely even registered the fact that they had no horses. Her face was covered in blood and she no longer knew if it was hers, Jaime’s, or the enemy’s. For a breath there were no more fighters around them and she hastily wiped her bloodstained right hand on the cloth at the inside of her opposite forearm. Her armor was starting to wear her out. They had been too long at this; not even her levels of stamina were enough. Two more breaths and they remained alone. She noticed the sun almost touching the horizon and realized that they had been at it for a whole day. No wonder her knees were trembling like twigs in the breeze.

Jaime was no better, panting heavily. He had several cuts on his arms and face and there was a nick at the back of his neck, where his head had almost been cut off by a rider’s bastard sword. Brienne had dug her blade into the side of the horse and the man had been caught underneath it. Her rage at the thought of the slash being an inch deeper had blinded her, and she had hacked away at the long-haired sellsword in a fury before more opponents came.

Three more breaths; it all seemed deserted. She even had enough time to look all around her, noticing a thick cloud of dust suspended in the air from the horses’ hooves, all the corpses, the rivers of blood; opening her ears to the sound of the dying mounts and even worse—the agonizing men. It merely took her five steps to reach a Lannister soldier with half his guts outside of his body, screaming for mercy. She shut her eyes tight when she plunged her sword into his heart.

When Brienne looked back towards Jaime, a sudden blow made her feel like her lungs were devoid of air. His green eyes were initially open and clear, invaded by the euphoria of the bloodshed around them, but then they opened wide in panic. It was then that she understood that her breath had truly been knocked out of her, though she had barely felt it. When she reached down to touch a spot above her hip, her hands were deeply stained with crimson. The blood did not seem like her own, but the tip of the sword sticking out made her believe otherwise. _In battle half a heartbeat is a lifetime_ , Ser Goodwin whispered from the grave.

The man’s entire arm came off with the slash of Jaime’s sword, before he opened a gash so deep in his throat that his head was halfway detached from his body. She stared and stared, feeling foreign in her own body, her hand covering the soaked flesh. The sword that cut through her was pulled out. Jaime screamed at someone to get him a horse, but the rest of his words were scrambled together. Brienne said his name tentatively, and he turned to look at her, holding her up in his arms.

Maybe if she closed her eyes, she would understand what was happening . . . She did, but she understood no better. She heard rushed steps and hooves, felt herself being jerked up, a steady movement, some word or another, and darkness.

* * *

Light was filtering through a window. It made her blink repeatedly to adjust her eyes. There was a shift beside her and the curtains were closed, allowing her eyes to focus, though most of what she saw was still a blur. What she last remembered was blood, the smell of it, that much she knew. Her blood in her hands, was it? She could recall no dreams, no nightmares to unsettle her, but the image of the soldier begging for mercy and the red liquid upon her blade was clear as dawn.

Brienne’s throat was dry. She tried to speak, but all she managed to do was groan hoarsely. She felt the figure stir again at her side and Jaime’s face came into focus. He had two large cuts on his face, but they were healing, and his beard had grown again. She wondered how long she had lain unconscious there, for it to be so long.

He brought a cup of water to her lips, and she drank it eagerly enough for it to spill out the sides of her mouth. Before she could move her arms, he was wiping it with the sleeve of his shirt. Brienne looked around the room. They were alone in a bedchamber with two large beds. An inn. Next to her, on the floor, rested a water-filled bucket with some bloodstained bandages draped over the edges.

She lifted the sheets as best she could, looking down. She wore some roughspun breeches and a loose tunic, unfamiliar fresh clothing. There was a large wound above her right hip, but the pain was not as bad. That made her certain that one of the men in Jaime’s camp who were in charge of the wounded had given her milk of the poppy. They had no maester at hand; not that she knew of, at least. Curiosity bit at her and she lifted the fresh bandage to find her skin carefully sewn, red around the edges but seemingly free of infection.

“Are you hungry?” Jaime asked her softly, fetching her a tray from the table. She drank an entire cup of clear stew in only a few gulps, accompanied by a piece of stale bread, feeling like she had not eaten in years. He simply laughed at the sight, sitting on the bed next to hers.

“Why were you in my bed?” she asked once she had finished her meal, more bluntly than she would at any other time. Perhaps surviving her first battle had made her bolder.

Jaime was strangely taken aback, though his expression soon turned back to amusement. “You keep bleating my name in your sleep,” he answered with his usual arrogant tone. “It’s either that or not sleeping at all.”

A blush spread on her cheeks and she averted her gaze towards the dusty curtains, ashamed of being exposed to him in such a way, in dreams that she could not control and so easily betrayed her feelings. It made her remember their kisses, the warmth of his lips, the softness of the skin at the nape of his neck.

Soon her eyelids grew heavy. She felt like she had been riding for an entire day, like she had been fighting for a fortnight, and exhaustion took her back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Your wound is better,” Jaime pointed out as he accompanied her on a walk around the yard to stretch her legs. She had learned that they were at the same inn in Rosby where they had stayed earlier, though they had been moved to a larger room.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

His step was unhurried to match hers. “It was a bloodbath, like we thought it would be. There’s a reason the Golden Company has the most prestigious sellswords in the world. We were also far outnumbered. By the time you were wounded, I was starting to think that some force must have joined ours, to lower their numbers so suddenly. It was a group of the Warrior’s Sons, led by my cousin Lancel.”

Her mind raced back to her lessons in Tarth during her childhood, when she would mostly stare out the window, watching the training yard wistfully. But the stories about warriors and battles had always interested her greatly. “The Warrior’s Sons were disbanded by Jahaerys the Conciliator.”

“Cersei made a pact to bring them back,” he informed her. She could see his jaw clenching at the idea, and it might as well. The Faith had been kept out of the battlefields for almost three hundred years, and for good reason. They were lucky they had considered their side the one worth defending.

“I thought Aegon kept faith with the Seven,” she said, leaning her hand against the outside wall of the stables as they passed by. Jaime noticed and gently locked her right arm in his left for support. “Why did they decide to take our side?”

“King’s Landing was besieged by Aegon for a long time. They refused to treat with the High Septon until the city was surrendered. The Warrior’s Sons came on a suicide mission to defend him, only a hundred foot soldiers and perhaps fifty mounted. They made a difference, though, with their timing. Fresh soldiers while both sides were exhausted.”

“Your forces . . .”

“Slain. Around eighty of them lived. Mostly the commanders and the riders.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, then. How is it that we’re here?”

Jaime threw her a crooked grin and his features became even more handsome with the gesture. “Dragons.” As a response to her puzzled expression he added, “The flying, roaring kind.”

* * *

When Brienne woke, he was sleeping beside her.

She stirred, breathed deeply, wondered if it was just another dream. But it was not. Her dreams were dark and heavy and painful. There was nothing painful about Jaime’s arm draped around her waist, his chest almost leaning against hers; there was nothing heavy about the way her heart sped up at the sight of all the lines in his face, of his closed eyes, his mind floating in a different world; there was nothing dark about the way he made her feel.

 _I’m only here so you’ll stay still_ , he had said. But he could make it so hard to believe.

* * *

“Aegon Targaryen is dead,” Jaime told her, once more the bearer of the news, a parchment tightly clutched in his hand. “If he was ever Aegon at all. The stories of his demise are as plentiful as they are absurd, so I cannot know what lies ahead, but we must take the chance to head for the capital, and soon.”

Brienne nodded from the deserted garden where she sat, leaning against a broken-down fence and staring at the rows of unmarked graves in the yard near the edge of the woods. The thick layer of snow that covered the ground made them seem almost beautiful. It had been at least two moons since the battle, and all that was left in Rosby were the remnants of the war. Corpses and dead men on their feet, starved, wounded. Others wandered, staying for a night or a half, on their way to the North to escape the chaos roused by the dragon and his allies.

Brienne knew better. From the North came news of dark things rising, of the dead walking, of hope fading at the Wall. She believed it now; after Lady Stoneheart, she’d believe anything. The world had shifted into something different, terror dripped over every inch of the land. There was no longer a place untouched by war. If she were inclined to help them at all, she would tell them to head for Dorne, so far away and so warm, but the Dornish had been on Aegon’s side, so things would not go well for them anymore, either.

No thinking went into her acceptance of Jaime’s request. Whatever may or may not be between them, for all intents and purposes her sword was at his service now. Without any foreseeable way to reach Lady Stark’s daughters, with the path to the Vale still closed by the heavy snow and her home invaded by foreigners, without news of her father or means to obtain them, there was naught but Jaime’s figure in her mind. She knew by then she’d follow him anywhere, follow him to the grave if need be, just as long as she could continue to gaze into his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” Brienne told him with determination. All her wounds, inside and out, were now in a distant past. All she was by then were scars and memories, dead possibilities from so long ago, everything beginning with a dance in her father’s hall. “Tomorrow we will go.”

* * *

“Open your eyes,” he whispered in her ear, his lips brushing her earlobe, her skin shivering at the touch. “Look at me.”

Brienne forced her eyes to open, to focus, but it was so difficult with such foreign sensations running through her. Jaime’s brow was covered in sweat, his lips swollen with their kisses, and she could feel every bit of his beard as he sunk his face into her neck. His lips and tongue transformed her into a possession, into his prey, into a treasure, into something she had never been and never thought she had the potential of being. Her legs spread wider around his body, feeling the back of his thighs brush against her toes, his length trapped against that barrier, awaiting her acquiescence.

A woman, that was it, she was a woman; she knew it when she brought up her hips and took him in.

“Brienne,” Jaime said softly, looking into her eyes, and she was whole. She had become what every jest and retort and experience contradicted, what her every insecurity had denied her, she had become his.

The fur she was lying on scratched her bare back with every gentle thrust of his hips, for between one bed and the other they had settled for the floor, or the floor had settled beneath them inadvertently. With every plunge the initial discomfort subsided, it was naught but a sharp tug; to her it was not true pain. She heard steps down the hallway and thought of the door, unbolted, of the room next to theirs, that they might be heard, thought of his vows. But when his hand pulled her backside hard toward him and his cock brushed a yet unexplored spot inside her, she could not bring herself to care.

The firelight that emanated from the hearth illuminated every inch of his chest, allowing her to marvel at his muscles, the way they scrambled to accommodate to his will, the way they clenched every time a grunt of pleasure came from his lips, while faint moans came from her own, unbidden, no matter how much she tried to shush them. The feel of him inside her overwhelmed her every pore, causing a stream to pour out of her. His fingers dug deep into the skin of her thigh, sending spasms of excitement through her veins. The sensation grounded her to the current moment, though she knew the world might soon fall to pieces.

At every stroke she felt further away from reality and could no longer hold his gaze, but still he controlled it all, and she let him. She let him set the speed, let him shift from painfully slow to something far hastier, like dashing on horse, and though she knew not what awaited her at the journey’s end, she was desperate to reach it, to experience whatever was beyond. Soon she was slipping, his name escaping her lips, like an anchor fastening her to the shore. Her breath came in ragged gasps, much like his; he was warm, burning, everything tasted of him, smelled of him, and she wanted to drown in it and never resurface.

She felt a grin spread on his lips, which were firmly clasped to her mouth. His whispered words shook her to her very core, covering her arms in gooseflesh. “Wait for me,” he asked of her in an impish tone. From the way he groaned and from how hard he’d grown inside her, she knew he only sought to tease her, to lure her into his power so she would yield to him, to torture her with utter desire. A few thrusts later he shifted to sneak his hand down and rub the moist nub that had her groaning moments earlier. Her consciousness was ripped from her body the way Jaime had ripped off her smallclothes. Pleasure took over and Brienne went someplace far away, someplace completely white where nothing could touch her, where she was safe. A shelter, a haven, a home.

When Jaime pulled out of her depths she felt divested of a vital thing, something she never knew existed and was now almost a necessity. A warm liquid trickled down the insides of her thighs, his seed blended with her maiden’s blood, everything that she had been and that he was. It was all merged together in a night that to Brienne felt like a blade of Valyrian steel, indestructible and fabled, like verses from a song that would be forever lingering in the corners in her mind.

The absence of his skin writhing against hers felt colder than the heavy snow outside; even though he was right there, she almost missed him. But not long afterwards Jaime smiled at her, an honest, pleasant smile that almost made her heart stop. His damp body settled beside hers, his hand held her closely by the hip, his lips kissed her lids and her nose and her mouth; a caress, a reassurance, a greeting and a farewell.

* * *

For all his talk of suicide missions, Jaime knew how to plan one of his own.

It was Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons that managed to vanquish the residue of Aegon’s forces. She had refused to unleash them directly on the capital, though, for fear of burning innocents in their homes. _Like someone I know_. So she had taken to simply replacing Aegon in his siege, seeking to starve out the city. The Greyjoy fleet occupied the Blackwater Bay, and the king had no ships to defend it ever since they were all stolen, so there was no fishing in the bay. Rosby had declared for the Dragon Queen; Jaime had discussed it at length with one of his men during a long night at the inn, between tanks of ale. It had something to do with the husband of a Stokeworth lady, who had been a sellsword in the service of Jaime’s brother. It was rumored that Tyrion was an advisor of the Dragon Queen, but it was difficult to get a straight story out of anyone.

Without Rosby to provide supplies and the Reach in chaos, King’s Landing would be starved out soon. Mace Tyrell’s forces were being held back by the Martells, who had struck an alliance with Daenerys as soon as the dragons made their appearance, doubtlessly influenced by the rising doubts in regards to Aegon’s origins. It was confusion and turmoil everywhere; the political shifts were so intense that it was hard to know who they would be fighting the following fortnight.

The last of Jaime’s remaining forces stood by him till the end, even though they knew the risk. The plan was simple enough—to approach the Dragon Queen under a peace banner, seeking to establish a treaty in the name of King Tommen. So they gathered what little they had left and rode.

Brienne could see a well-ordered formation of soldiers in the distance as they advanced. Unsullied, Jaime called them, when he told her all he knew about Daenerys: “She came with an army of freed slave eunuchs, pirates and savages who’ve never set foot in Westeros, much like herself. Most importantly she came with three huge pet dragons at her back, riding the Black Dread reborn.”

A strong, balding knight riding a black destrier appeared between the lines of Unsullied to receive them, but they were still at a far distance. “Jorah Mormont,” Jaime mumbled, his interest piqued. They held their ground not to seem hostile, awaiting his approach to explain their intentions.

It was all going according to plan until it wasn’t.

A huge boulder appeared out of nowhere and came to fall amongst the ranks of eunuchs; there was a sickening crushing sound followed by screams and shouting, men bellowing orders, the Unsullied springing to action, not against them, but to their flank. The army that appeared to greet the Dragon Queen’s bore banners of green and gold, banners she had seen day after day at Highgarden, banners to support her king. The Tyrells had arrived to throw Daenerys back, to defend their own queen.

Brienne turned to look at Jaime in confusion, uncertain what to do, but he was missing from her side. She spotted him a few feet farther, arguing against a rider whose black hair was tied in a braid that fell down to his waist. All she could hear out of the man’s mouth were unintelligible, guttural growls. She searched for the knight that was supposed to treat with them, but he had disappeared behind the group of Unsullied when the catapults had taken them by surprise.

A dragon roared fiercely and she looked up to see a green blur, far up in the sky, and a shiver ran through her. The war cries filled her ears. A different Dothraki tore the standard-bearer’s peace banner in half, and after that it was all blood. Tyrell, Targaryen and Lannister turned into foe against foe; it turned into a struggle for survival, their words useless against the Dothraki’s arakhs. The Unsullied spoke a different language to the Dothraki’s, different to the common tongue as well, so as soon as they saw the horsemen charge, three scores of them followed suit.

She smelled smoke and blood and fire, fire most of all. As she charged at full speed to ride down an Unsullied that was engaging Jaime, she caught sight of a tall flame on a low hill in the distance. A catapult had been set on fire by the black demon, a gut-wrenching roar escaping its fierce jaws. Atop him sat a figure, a girl; this dragon-riding queen was naught but a girl not much younger than Brienne, bellowing commands at the soaring mount in a foreign tongue.

Somehow she managed to look at Jaime before resuming the clash, to meet his gaze, and she saw so many things her heart almost leapt out of her chest. His longing, his courage, his trust in her. And love, love only for that fraction of time, only for that moment that was preceded by panic and would be succeeded by carnage, only for that moment he loved her, and so she was braver than ever before, and they did what they knew best—they fought.

* * *

“How would it fare with you to be the Lady of Casterly Rock?” Jaime asked her, a grin spreading across his face.

Brienne’s eyes focused on every line around his eyes, his dirty beard clouding his face with the undertones of exhaustion. His appearance could only be a result of so many days on the road, so many battles fought beside her. They had seen and shared too much, but only now did he seem his age, he seemed so much older, so different to that arrogant man Lady Catelyn had bestowed upon her.

She shook her head. “I once said I would only wed a man who could beat me in a fight. You never beat me.” In spite of it all, she felt slightly amused. How he could have that effect on her at such an inappropriate time was beyond her understanding.

“Well, aren’t you a most demanding wench? You should feel flattered that I would even ask at all. You’re not even a maid anymore.”

She snorted. “I wonder who is responsible for that.” She turned to lay on her back, looking up at the stars above them. The snowstorms had stopped for the past two days and a light snowfall was beginning just then. A snowflake landed against her lips and she felt so relaxed that she wondered how she could have ever feared what may happen. If she knew how things would unfold, she might have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Jaime Lannister most certainly laughed, more often than not at her own expense. Though she did not laugh now, she felt peaceful. His fingers made their way to hers and she grasped them tightly. His hand was moist, just like hers.

“I will do it,” Brienne told him finally. “I will wed you. But only because I need heirs for Tarth.”

Jaime coughed. The plunge in temperature was affecting them. Sometimes she felt that seasons were meaningless by now, that it all came down to a roll of the die, one day it would snow, then the sun would emerge behind the clouds only to hide for weeks. The gods must obtain some wicked pleasure from dragging them along like puppets in a mummer’s farce.

He pulled her closer and she nuzzled her head in his neck. It was so sticky that her hair was soaked through, deep tones of red tarnishing every strand, the warmth fleeing from them as a hare flees from a fox. She took a deep breath and tasted the copper in her tongue, struggled to swallow, closed and opened her eyes once more.

“They’ll be tall and feisty,” Jaime told her, his voice almost a whisper, “and if they are girls and as stubborn and ugly as you, we’ll have trouble marrying them off. They might cut off their betrothed’s balls.”

A rush of cold washed over her. The drops of blood were running down her neck, but they felt like water rushing down her hair in the waterfalls of her Sapphire Isle. The real throb came from the slash that ran from her chest to her hip, though by then the pain had started to subside as the blood pooled beneath her body. She wished she had her sword so they would not have to bleed out like slaughtered pigs for what felt like hours, but the second wave of Dothraki had taken it along with their horses. _Oathkeeper_. She was such a fool for letting them take his blade. His honor.

As it was, it took seven of them to overpower her. By the time the last arakh sliced her torso, Jaime was already down, and she had played the shield on pure instinct. “Stupid pigheaded wench,” he had said. But they would not have lasted much longer either way, and this was better than dragonfire.

The black and red demon roared high above them then, as if to make her point, and for some reason she found nothing but beauty in the ash-ridden skies, a dance between them and each flake of snow.

She was glad for the satisfaction of knowing that soon after they both fell, a last stream of Lannister forces had appeared on the horizon to scatter the Dothraki and take as many as they could to the last of the seven hells. “Ser Bonifer’s Holy Not-Quite-Hundred,” Jaime had said half-laughing, while the blood dripped down his temple.

 _Come to die_ , she had thought subsequently, but it was the duty of a knight, the duty of a soldier. To die sword in hand, fighting for honor, fighting for what is just.

Brienne wanted to will her arm to move, to reach out for Jaime’s face. She longed for the strength to rise and drag him along the battlefield to safety, but her body was not taking commands from her anymore. So she focused the last of her faltering consciousness in keeping him company as long as she could while they waited. _Wait for me_ , he had told her in the firelight. It would not take him long, either.

“They need not marry,” she said softly. A gasp came out of her lips, unbidden, but he ignored it, just as she ignored Jaime’s shuddering and his ice-cold fingers slipping from her hand, slick with blood. In the battlefield a dragon shrieked in pain, and its flames lit up the night sky. “They can just have their maidenheads claimed by the man they ride with, before even asking for their hands.” She closed her eyes. It felt like resting after hours on the saddle, like slumping down on a featherbed after months on the road, like slipping into a hot bath with the most handsome man in Westeros. “You should . . . have . . . asked earlier.” Her words slurred; she could hear it, but she could not help it. It felt like one of those evenings when they drank too much wine at the inn after fighting Aegon Targaryen’s forces. Her mail was an anchor dragging her down, so heavy, its weight keeping her firmly docked to Jaime’s dying body as his breaths shortened.

“Brienne,” he called out to her, but his voice felt so distant, it was miles and miles away, as far as Essos, as far as Asshai. “Open your eyes.”

But she never did.

* * *

_I should have loved a thunderbird instead;_   
_At least when spring comes they roar back again._   
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I sped up Dany’s timeline because all seven gods know she needs it. Let’s call it Khaleesi’s Magical Express Train to Westeros.


End file.
